There’s no cloud in the sky; there’s no sorrow in my heart; there are no pears on trees.
Every step inside a thought, my numb mind begins to dream. A different self, another era. A sphinx from some ancient and distant constellation. Where have all the pears gone?
I try to regain control. I try to command my soul. I try to erase the rewind.
I often dream of the desert. Is there any psycho who can explain that?
Two weeks ago, I gave Hayley-Marie Coppin some pears and in return she gave me her panties and her bra. I framed them and asked her to autograph the glass. She said I was a mad romantic. No, she’s completely wrong: I’m not mad.
